What If We Weren't Falling Apart?
by HollyDunmer
Summary: Skyrim. Broken beyond repair, with factions dissolving from the inside having fallen from grace over the past two hundred years. The Empire itself has fallen, bowing to the Aldmeri Dominion, losing several provinces, and struggling to keep hold of its frozen North. Yet maybe, just maybe, it's not broken at all.
1. Helgen

"I've almost got them off."

Sadarlis Indilu was not having the best day. The air around him stank of hay and sweat, as dank and heavy against his skin as the wet wool of what remained of his robes. Rusted shackles as stifling as the air weighed down his wrists, and he was so peppered with bruises that his skin was more purple than grey. The crowd of Nords packed into the stinking cell had mostly ignored him, stepping over his battered body as a redhead in sack clothing pulled the shackles off a battered young man in blue-sashed armour. Looking over, the Nord in the blue sash squinted, spotting him in the darkness and sighing to himself.

"You were unlucky to get caught up in this mess, friend. You, the sulking High Elf, and the Breton in the corner. Where ya from anyway?"

Sadarlis licked his lips, his mouth dry as the lingering taste of blood refused to go. "Azura's Watch." He croaked, the cracked skin of his lips splitting open and leaking a little blood.

"Refugee headed for Windhelm? Gods, you really were in the wrong place at the wrong time. How-"

"Quiet!" The redhead hissed, positioning his free arms behind his back in false binds. "Ralof, guard's coming!"

Ralof fell into line beside the redhead, arms behind his back as the steady tramping of metal footsteps came past the cell bars. Slow, deliberate, a temple procession perhaps? Sadarlis eased himself into standing as leather-skirted Imperial soldiers made their way past, in a procession of about ten surrounding one figure. A prisoner, clad in rags, face hidden by an iron helmet and hands bound to a crossbar across both shoulders.

"What's with the helmet?" The redhead hissed.

"That's Ulfric Stormcloak." Another Nord replied.

"The leader of the Stormcloaks?"

"True High King of Skyrim, and heir to the Empire of Tamriel." Ralof replied, as Sadarlis stumbled, tripping over his bare feet and smacking his face against the stone. Laying on his side, he squinted past the smarting over one eye towards the procession's tail end.

"Wait, what? Doesn't look like an Imperial to me."

"Not that Empire, horse thief," another Nord interjected, "they say Ulfric's got the dragon blood in his veins."

"Wait, I thought the Septims were all wiped out."

Ralof glanced over at the bickering Nords. "That's Uriel Septim's line, boy. Old Tiber Septim used to be Talos of Atmora. Ulfric's from that line."

Sadarlis' shoulder leaned against the cool granite of the cell wall as he stared after the procession. Blood oozed from his split lips, forming a scarlet bead which he licked away. Ulfric...then it was like a temple procession after all. Just one for a funeral yet to come.

"Would you please quit with the Gods-damned cow eyes! For the love of Rajhin, not like Ulfric's done us any favours. He's the reason you, me, and the coward are in this mess in the first place."

He glanced over his shoulder at the speaker, as she leaned against a stone wall. The Altmer's shoulders were bent funny, like she'd stepped through her arms so her wrists were shackled in front of her. The rusted binds strained on her wrists as the short chain wove with her folded arms, and the ragged ends of her hair only touched one shoulder.

Sadarlis looked back out to the empty hall outside the cell, rolling his eyes. "He's done more for my kind than you Thalmor." He muttered to himself, before a slim chain looped over his head and around his neck.

"What did you just say!?" She barked, pulling the chain on her shackles tight around the Dunmer's neck and digging her knee into his back. "Sounded like something about the Thalmor."

"Hey, get off him!" Ralof snapped, grabbing her arm as she pulled tighter on her shackles. The chain dug further into Sadarlis' neck as he struggled, spluttering against her attack.

"Nothing." He gasped, before she lowered her knee and let him drop to the floor.

"That's what I thought." She spat, glowering down at him as Ralof shoved her away. "Learn from that."

Ignoring the Altmer, Sadarlis once more struggled to his feet as the tramping of metal boots came again. Rows of soldiers, blades in hand, stood as the cell door was unlocked to swing open with a squeak. "In line, the lot of you. Straight out that door!" A commander in steel armour barked, blade in his hand pointing out to the courtyard. Muttered curses were directed his way as the cell emptied, filtering down to the courtyard as two soldiers, male and female in polished armour, stood with a list and quill.

"Step forward when we call your name. Kjoth of Ivarstead."

A haggard soldier in blue-sashed armour stepped forward, spitting at their feet on the way past. One by one he called their names, until he reached the end. "Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No, I'm not a rebel! I'm not with them!" The redhead in rags yelled, bolting for it across the courtyard, bare feet slapping the cobbles.

"Halt!" The female commander barked, drawing a blade as Lokir skirted past her. "Archers!"

Whatever Lokir yelled was silenced by six arrows embedding into his body and smearing him against the cobbled ground. His blood trickled down the steady slope as the archers lowered their bows, glinting red like the peacock plume on the commander's helm as she turned to the crowd. "Anyone else feel like running?"

Her voice grated like her blade as she sheathed it, turning to the commander with the list. "Next!" She barked, as he looked up.

"You there, wait! You're not on the list." The Imperial commander blanked her, addressing a Breton shaking enough to make his manacles rattle. Torn rags of what once were lavender robes hung off him like a sack, and wide eyes peered through matted hair hanging around his face.

"Forget the list, Captain, he goes to the block!" She barked, before he raised a hand and interjected.

"General Tullius' orders, we need to secure relations with Whiterun. Executing an innocent could sour our relationship. I'll take responsibility. Guards! Escort him back to the cell!"

Two soldiers flanked the Breton, leading him back inside as the captain turned back. "You're not on the list either."

The Altmer stood tall, refolding her arms, her straining manacles worn like golden bangles. The ragged ends of her hair had caught the icy wind, locks drifting like tattered flags as she glared down her nose at the two Imperials.

"She was caught with the Stormcloaks, she goes to the block with them!" The commander interjected again, before the captain cut her off.

"We can't afford an incident with the Aldmeri Dominion now." He retorted, turning to the Altmer. "You, you're our guest until we can get someone from the Thalmor Embassy down here to evaluate the situation. If the Embassy doesn't vouch for you, you're going to the block. Guards, take this one back too!"

Two more Imperials seized the Altmer by the upper arms, dragging her back to the keep. As they turned her, she jerked back her head, glaring at the Imperial commander and spitting right in her face. A smug smile crossed her lips as the commander stopped to wipe her face, before being dragged back into the keep.

Just Sadarlis remained in line. "Another straggler?" The captain asked, looking the Dunmer up and down.

"Their kind supports Ulfric, he goes to the block!" The commander interjected a third time, wiping spittle off her face as she looked the Dunmer up and down. The Altmer's attempt at garrotting him had left a reddening mark around his neck, and the manacles around his wrists threatened to bend him backwards.

"The Gods really have abandoned your people, elf. Commander, take him."

The commander grabbed Sadarlis by the scraggles of his hair, dragging him to the block. "Hey, that Dark Elf's not part of the Stormcloaks!" Ralof yelled, as the ground shook and the rough wood of the block slammed into his cheek. White specks swam in front of his eyes, the impact of the block resonated through his skull like a bell, and someone screamed.

"What in Oblivion is that!?" Some man yelled, as it slammed atop the tower, clawed wings biting into the stone as the shockwave resonated out.

"Dragon!" A woman screeched, and it roared, blasting back a handful of Imperials into the walls as if they were no more than dolls. Reeling, Sadarlis tumbled off the block, hitting the ground and watching as a leather-armoured archer flew into an Imperial soldier and smacked the both of them into a wall with a wet crunch.

"This way, move it!" Someone yelled, and Sadarlis' vision seemed to clear. "Move...fire from the skies...there!" He staggered back towards the keep, tongues of fire licking at his heels as he ran barefoot amongst the broken bodies into the open doorway.

"Thought you weren't gonna make it!" Ralof wheezed, bent over with hands on his knees, chest heaving like the sea. by his side, still bound to the crossbar, Ulfric stood struggling at the chains. Hunched in the corner, the Imperial commander lay slumped on the floor, the captain trying to stem her bleeding. The shaking Breton hid behind him, muttering something like a prayer to himself, and the Altmer had backed herself against the wall by the door. Her manacles had been shed, laying forgotten on the floor, rattling as the earth shook with every roar outside.

"Come on, grab that axe and help me get those chains off him!" Ralof yelled as he straightened up, grabbing Sadarlis' manacles and unbinding them. Once free, the Nord indicated the axe lodged in the dead Imperial's belt, going back to unbinding Ulfric.

"Are you crazy, we have to get out of here!" The Imperial captain yelled, pulling the commander to her feet, his hands soaked in her blood.

His hands shook...blood had been spilled, nearly his blood...Sadarlis grabbed the axe from the dead Imperial, slamming it into the wooden crossbar, letting it shatter as the captain grabbed the commander's arm and bolted with the Breton, slamming the keep door behind him. As the chains clattered to the floor and coiled like a snake at his feet, Ulfric pulled off the helmet and blinked in the light, staring bleary eyed at the two elves. "Gods thank you, brother, sister." He gasped, before taking the Imperial commander's dropped blade and charging out of the keep, slamming the door against the stone wall and cracking it.

"Quit staring, boy! This way!" Ralof barked, grabbing his wrist and pulling him through the keep."Watch your step...get down!"

Cold stone bit into the Dunmer's skin as Ralof leapt atop him, stone flying through the keep before a gout of fire came roaring down from the hole in the roof, scorching the stone before vanishing with a flap of scaled wings. "Goldie, hold on!" the Nord yelled, as the Altmer wove through the rubble piles. "Come on, you'll get yourself killed!"

Sadarlis pulled himself up as Ralof began pursuing the Altmer, following his path stumbling over rubble as the ground shook. Occasionally the entire keep behind him would collapse, flames bursting in as he followed the two out to a courtyard surrounded by destruction. The remains of an archer's tower lay forlorn and broken across the bloody stones, its battlements clawing at the burning straw of a house's roof as the stone crumbled into itself. What remained of windows were now jagged teeth stretching up, barring both sides from all but a glance at each other. The Altmer had bolted over to the shattered tower, pausing for breath as Ralof ran up behind her, still pursued by Sadarlis. At the other end of the courtyard, Hadvar and the Breton stood, crouching and cowering as the dragon soared overhead.

"Don't you bloody run off like that again! Come on, follow me!" He yelled, as she doubled over gasping for breath, watching through the remains of the tower as the bloody-footed Dunmer caught up. For on the other side, where the headsman's block lay, Ulfric's thu'um resonated out to strike the dragon with unrelenting force. Knocked from the sky, it slammed into the tower, bringing it down in a maelstrom of rubble atop the flapping sails of its wings. It barely struggled as Ulfric leapt atop its head, driving his blade deep into the ridge of its nose with a final roar.

"That's Ulfric Stormcloak," Ralof gasped, chest heaving as he struggled for breath, "they call him the Dragonborn, last son of Talos. The one defending Talos worship, defending the Nordic way, from being stripped away and outlawed by these Imperials. No true Nord respects them anymore, they lost us. Lost the loyalty of the Nord people when they turned their back on our values, banning the worship of Ysmir. You know, like when they turned their back on your people, banned you from asylum in the Empire's provinces, Dark Elf. Come on, let's go!"

Ralof turned and bolted, heading out the door and letting it shut behind the two elves, leaving nothing but a winding tunnel down into the bowels of the keep. "Come on, this way." Sadarlis gasped, grabbing the Altmer's wrist and making for the tunnels.

"Why should I follow you?" She snapped, yanking her hand away.

"You got any alternatives?"

The Altmer snorted, jogging after him through the cave-like tunnels, bare feet padding over the springy earth, dodging the odd mound of rubble coming down from the roof. "You got a name then, soot-skin, or d'you want me t'call you Master? Seems the slave-driving aspect hasn't left you quite yet." She quipped, following him in squeezing through a narrow gap.

"Sadarlis," he snipped, "Sadarlis Indilu, and I take it you want me to call you Thalmor, right?"

"I don't get called Thalmor, the Thalmor call me."

"And what do they call you?"

"Things that only get said past your bedtime, kid. I'd say what they called me alongside Estore, but I'd probably give you nightmares."

Estore smirked and patted his head, striding past him out of the small cave. Sunlight rays streamed through barren branches onto the dusting of snow around her, and winds whipped at her bare arms until goosebumps rose up. Ahead of her, mountains stretched towards the glacier blue skies, smothered in snow that seemed to run down their craggy slopes and gush over the hardened ground. Stubby grass clumps wore spiked armour of frost as they poked through the powdery snow, only to be crushed under her bare and bloody foot as she swanned down the shallow hill into deeper mounds.

"I presume you have somewhere to go that isn't following me?" She glared over her shoulder at the source of the crunching snow behind her, wading through the frozen drifts.

"You assume that I was following you."

"Well where'ya off to if you're not following me?"

"I don't know." Sadarlis paused, tasting blood as he licked his sore lips. "But it's definitely far from home."


	2. Riverwood

The last time Secente Monand had been this lost was several years ago, in Wayrest's branch of the School of Julianos. Yet misreading the directions in his student professor's guide to the campus paled in comparison to where he now found himself. Alone on the road in the back end of nowhere, barefoot in ankle-deep snow, and desperate for breath but more desperate to not lose sight of the Imperial captain he'd seen charging across the tundra just out of earshot.

That was the one who'd got him through Helgen...the one who'd refused to send him to the block. That Imperial had helped him before that Stormcloak guy killed the dragon. What was it he said about Ulfric Stormcloak? That he was the last of Tiber Septim's bloodline, but he went mad and started his own rebellion against the Empire, causing hundreds of deaths in his name. The Imperial said he had to be stopped, but then he took off through the gates before they collapsed.

Catching sight of the Imperial captain again had been his only streak of luck since High Rock, and despite the burning pains in his lungs, Secente refused to let him out of his sight as he ran down the well-trodden path. Some walled village stood ahead through the trees, buildings capped in snow and air smelling of fresh cut wood and charcoal, and as far as Secente was concerned, it was his last hope.

"Hey!" His lungs burned as he wheezed, seeing a metal-masked guard in a butter-yellow sash standing on guard by the village walls. "Have...you seen...an Imperial...come through here?"

Secente paused for breath, leaning on his knees, wheezing as every part of him burned and screamed in splitting agony. "Is he overprotective or is she pretty? Lucan Valerius for the former, Camilla Valerius for the latter.

"No," he gasped, "like a soldier."

"Oh, ask the blacksmith, Alvor. His nephew Hadvar's in the Legion."

The Breton nodded, palm up to thank the guard as he staggered through the village. It was pretty small, with an inn, forge, a store, and about thirty small houses and farms all clustered on one side of the river, nestled within great stone walls and all capped with snow. The other side across the short plank bridge was dominated by two huge sawmills, both working full pelt, as workers loaded them with thick logs and the scent of cut wood filled the air. Sliced logs floated in the river, waiting for workers doing the rounds up from Whiterun to punt them down the river like canoes to the city.

It was no Wayrest, but aside from the stray chickens and goats wandering free within the walls, it was alright. The kind of village where people looked out for each other, and everyone worked to make things go smoothly. Dodging a fat hen leading her chicks through the street, Secente leaned against the forge support, swayed, then collapsed on the steps gasping for breath.

"Easy, you look like you've ran up from southern Cyrodiil." Someone tapped his shoulder with the toe of their boot. "You alive down there?"

Secente gasped for breath, looking up at the one talking to him. Soot caked his face and clothes, smeared in places where the man had wiped sweat from his brow during a hard day's work. The leather apron tied around him was scratched and worn in places, and his hands were peppered in tiny burns. "You're the blacksmith...thank the Gods...Hadvar...where is he?"

"Inside, why? Never mind, come on. You look like you've been through a war and come out the other side."

The Breton pulled himself to his feet, chest still heaving as Alvor guided him inside the small home. A fire crackled in the grate, flooding the building with heat, and a table with benches groaned under the weight of a fat kettle of soup and the day's bread left to cool. "Sit down, you look like you lost an argument with a sabre cat. Hadvar, Sigrid, we have company!"

"One of the lumberjacks need a new axe again?" A woman called up from the stairs, clutching a wicker basket full of dusky grey ingots as the boards creaked under her. "Maybe you can use up some of these then-oh...who's this?"

"I don't know, Sigrid, he collapsed on the forge steps. Said he's looking for Hadvar."

"Who's looking for me?" The young Nord came upstairs, armour ditched for a plain tunic and shirt and reddish hair plastered to his scalp like he'd stuck his head in a water barrel to wash off the blood and dirt. "You...you made it out, alive?"

"Just," Secente gasped, "Gods above!"

"You survived though. Hmm, there might be more to you than first thought. General Tullius could use someone like you to deliver a message to the Jarl of Whiterun. Both men need to know about the dragon."

Hadvar took his armour up from drying over the fire, slipping it on. "Come meet me in Solitude. We'll work something out. You, me, and General Tullius. You'll be a neutral party so we can't fund you. Go help out or join a guild. Something to fund you."

"A guild?"

"You know, bunch of paid mercs or people uniting as they're good at or believe in something. Those are, well were, mage robes, right?"

Secente nodded, looking down at his lavender coloured rags.

"School of Jhunal's got a temple up in Whiterun. If you're more for doing good, there's Vigilants of Stendarr found all over the place. Think there's even some at the Chapel of the Eight in Whiterun. Go join up there, find a way of funding yourself."

Vigilants of Stendarr? Secente paused, thinking. There had been Vigilants of Stendarr in Wayrest's School of Julianos before. They used the library and held long, detailed discussions with some of the senior professors there, researching. Researching Daedra and diseases and histories of Tamriel. A small group had even kept one of the older and wiser scholars in a discussion for nine hours, leaving with a fully fleshed out map that was barren when they commandeered that side room of the library.

"Come meet me in Solitude when you have the funds. We'll get things going from there."


	3. The Pine Forest

Estore didn't care whether the Imperial forester she'd left in the woods was injured or not, just that the paint horse she'd pulled him off was fast. Leaving him in the snow-caked dirt with the wind knocked out of him, the Altmer pulled herself up onto the horse's back, squared herself up with the saddle, and dug her bare heels into its sides. Faster she was out of the Pine Forest, the better.

No, faster she was out of Skyrim, the better. Thalmor crawled all over the province like rats, and it would only be a matter of time before she got herself into a bad case of mistaken identity and found herself shipped off to their Embassy, like that Justiciar's original plans for her. Better to get out of Skyrim, settle somewhere hot - maybe Hammerfell, though the abolishment of slavery made the hot and dry Telvanni Isles a tempting potential hideout - and replace any bad cases of mistaken identity with good cases of Argonian bloodwine and sparkling honeydew that fell off the back of a merchant's cart and landed right at her feet, honest.

That would only happen if she got out of Skyrim, which was a long way from happening. Clicking her tongue and yanking at the reins, Estore directed her mount down a worn path around a fallen tree, pointed ears pricked for any snarls or growls as the frosted pines became silver birches bowing their snow-caked branches. Cold sunset winds carried snowflakes to stick in her hair and mush themselves into icy needles on her skin, and her nose was full of the scent of thick snow, horse breath, and...fire?

Sure enough, flickering amber light shone from a small alcove in the ridged land, glinting off the silver bark of the nearby birches. "Forest fire?" She thought, but shook her head. Melting snow from a forest fire would make everything too wet and extinguish it in minutes. "Must be some kind of camp."

Staying on horseback, Estore directed her mount over to the flicking flames, peering down at the mound of snapped branches and blackening leaves wrapped up in a blanket of crackling flames. Stray branches stuck out of the burning mess, and the kindling appeared to have been just dumped on top.

"Bloody candle won't last the night," she muttered, climbing off her mount and lashing the reins to a stubby finger of a branch, "amateur."

"Hey!" Someone yelled. "That's not amateur!"

Estore tensed at the brash lad's voice, looking back over her shoulder. "You again?"

"Could say the same. What're you doing at my camp?"

"Wondered what the candle out here was. Don't expect that t'last the night. Anyway, thought a boy like you would be off t'city and all the fancy comforts."

"I'm not a boy!"

Estore chuckled, leaning over to pat Sadarlis on the head. "I've got more facial hair than you, kid. Until that changes, you're just a boy in my eyes."

She brushed some stray hairs off her bare cheeks, perching on a tree stump as Sadarlis folded his arms. "Why ain't you off t'city then?"

"I was." He paused, thunking down on the same stump. "Saw the Breton from earlier at this little logging village on the way to this big old city. 'Whiterun' them Nords call it. It's huge! As big as Blacklight."

"And you ain't living it fancy there now 'cause...why exactly?"

"They laughed me out." He slumped down, sticking his hands out over the weak fire. "I tried to tell a guard about Helgen. You know, about the dragon and all. He just laughed at me then drove me out."

Estore snorted, barking ugly laughter. "O'course he just laughed at ya. You're a bloody kid and you look like a beggar. No reason t'pay ya any heed."

He glanced up from warming his hands over the fire, glancing sideways at her. "I thought they should know."

"And ya think they'd give a damn about a foreigner, that's just a boy, and don't look like he's got two septims t'rub together? Face it, kid. Unless you're a rich Nord, or an upper-middle class trader, or some politician stuffing themselves up the Jarls' backsides, nobody cares about ya."

She paused, sighing and flipping her hair. "For Rahjin's sake, you look like a puppy that just got kicked."

"Well what do you suggest I do?"

"Get outta Skyrim." She stretched her legs out, dirt and leaves caking her bare feet as she spread her toes and let the mud caking them crack and split. "Go to a port - best bet is Windhelm - get outta Skyrim, and don't look back. Forget whatever reason brought ya here, and get out. Whatever ya got back there is way better than anything Skyrim has to offer."

"That's why I came here in the first place." He replied, drawing his hands in from the flame and rubbing them together. "To help out in Windhelm. Help my people fleeing Morrowind. The sick and injured and needy, as the Reclaimations want."

"And yet when it comes to lopping heads off, the Empire picked goody-goody you over big bad me. Shows the state of things here."

She drew her filthy feet up onto the stump, laying curled up on the cold, dry wood. "If ya wanna go t'Windhelm and be a goody-goody priest guy, I won't stop ya, but ya doing it at ya own risk."

Estore flipped her half-shaven hair over to cover the shaven side, laying her head on the hard wood. "Oh, and kid?"

"I'm not a kid."

"Kindling goes underneath the solid fuel, not just dumped on top."

However Sadarlis retorted, she didn't hear. Probably something about how he knew that. "Teenagers," she mused, "they think they're all-knowing and all-resistant."


	4. Whiterun

Secente was used to large cities, but not like Whiterun. Whiterun was spread out on snow-caked tundra, rising up from the landscape like a wedding cake adorned in snow white icing. The faint scent of fresh cut wood still lingered by a mill and cluster of buildings, as pulped wood was fed into a stone vat of water and the wet mass was ladled out to be rolled flat and left to dry. Workers dripping sweat marched past him, calling out their steps as pairs of them hauled rolls of sun-dried paper as long and wide as the average Altmer man on their shoulders through the city gates. Farmers in the fields of wheat and carrots and other crops had some kind of song bouncing around the fields as they toiled.

 _Four hours left until home I can go.  
Sow and weed, pick and hoe.  
Where cold is the mead and melt does the snow.  
Sow and weed, pick and hoe.  
There's soup in the pot and baking bread dough.  
Sow and weed, pick and hoe.  
And I'll sit with a tankard in the fire's warm glow.  
Sow and weed, pick and hoe._

Blonde men and women returned the chant shirtless, wiping frozen sweat from their brows and flicking the droplets of ice off their rippling muscle as they plucked carrots and potatoes from the hard earth. Their shirts hung on the fences around the fields, fluttering in the icy breeze as men and elves shivered and rubbed their raw, blistered hands together.

"Must be the place." The Breton muttered to himself, drawing the ragged remains of his old mage robes around himself as best as he could, goosebumps raising on his arms as a bitter breeze caught him. Hopefully the Vigilants of Stendarr or - what did Hadvar call them again? - the Temple of Jhunal, had some kind of uniform or at least some weather-appropriate clothes. The chill that crept inland off Wayrest's coast was nothing compared to this.

"How do they do it?" He muttered, as another metal-masked guard with a butter yellow sash leaned against the stone frame of the gates, yawning and stretching out her bare arms. Even within the city, where thousands of footprints had packed the snow into sharp ice that sliced at the Breton's bare feet, the Nords seemed not to care about the cold. One trader behind a stall, a potter judging by the ceramic bowls, plates, and vases sat proud on display, reached up to the corner of her stall's wooden canopy and snapped off an icicle. "You looking to buy?" She bit down on the icicle as she drawled, frosty blue eyes giving Secente's ragged robes and bleeding feet a quick once-over. "Ugh, nevermind."

Too cold to care, Secente brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked her over. "Do you know where the Vigilants of Stendarr are?"

She bit down on her icicle again, taking a look up and down, gears turning in her head, before a look of cold dread crossed her face. "V-Vigilants...well...go straight through the Great Market and up the stone steps to the Wind District. Cross the park until you can hear the nutter, then head to your right. Temple of the Eight should be right ahead of you. They've usually got a Vigilant or two there. If you desperately need diseases sorting out, the Temple of Kyne's directly opposite."

Diseases? Secente paused, then realised. With the bloody footsteps following him and the tattered look he'd gained, he could probably pass as an infected survivor of a vampire attack, or a potential sacrifice to some Daedra that slipped his shackles and got away. "Right...sure...got it," he winced as the ice bit into his feet further, limping through the Great Market.

"Great indeed." The Breton mused, weaving through the crowds. Nothing was staying, everything was moving, from the people milling around in every colour and costume, to the goods on sale that smelled of everything from cold metal to hot spices, and especially the gold. It slithered into merchant's hands, clinked in leather pouches on belts, and in the case of one Nord lady, rattled in a finely-beaded purse hanging off the crook of her elbow as she dipped her finger in the blood trough at a butcher's stall and smeared the red liquid on her lips. Straightening the bright feathers in her curled hair, she pursed her lips at what looked like a Thalmor in his fine black robes, slinking up against his side and whispering into his pointed ear. Within seconds, ahe earned herself a sharp backhand across the face that knocked her into a mound of snow stained black from soot. "Ruined wretch." He sniffed, stalking off through the crowd with his nose in the air and his black robes trailing behind him.

As expansive as the Great Market was, Secente could not afford to get sidetracked. Hadvar was expecting him in Solitude, getting to the city required money, and joining the Vigilants of Stendarr seemed the best way of earning it. Avoiding a young boy charging past in ragged clothes with a basket of apples, ignoring the yells of 'Oi, get back here you thieving little bastard!', the Breton made his way through the cluster of stalls and shops, heading up the stone steps to the Wind District.

Compared to the Great Market, this place was somewhat barren in terms of features. Just a great expanse of fresh grass kept snow-free by low braziers that presumably kept the park lit at night. A withered-looking tree stretched up from a ring of benches and vine-covered trellises, seemingly only kept standing by the rope tied around its barren trunk that two kids were playing jump-rope with. The rhythmic thwacking of the rope against the ground, their childish song about a Dunmer with lice, and the low conversation coming from huddled masses in makeshift camps seemed to produce a song. "The Music of Whiterun," he thought to himself as he drew closer. The camps had huddled themselves around a snow white temple with wooden roofs painted sky blue. Coloured banners and flags had been tied to the awnings and fed through the shutters, fluttering in the wind as the wooden windchimes on every corner rattled their tune.

What was it that potter had said? 'Cross the park until you hear the nutter, then head to your right.' Well there was no nutter, unless she meant the argument going on across the park. Another Thalmor and a yellow-sashed guard getting into a loud argument, with some priest in pumpkin-orange robes standing tall and smug-faced under his mustard yellow hood as he leaned next to a mammoth set of iron gates. A fat lock held the gates closed, and two black-haired warriors in grey armour stood on guard, trying very hard not to watch the bickering.

"- violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat."

"Justiciar Rubinde, you and your...Dominion are granted freedom to hold an embassy in Whiterun under the guidelines that you will follow Jarl Balgruuf's laws."

"The terms of the White-Gold Concordat affect every loyal citizen of the Empire. The worship of Talos in all his forms-"

"Perhaps you would prefer to spread the word of the Aldmeri Dominion from _outside_ the city walls?"

The guard looked over his shoulder, gesturing to the two warriors on guard in grey armour. At the hand signal, both men drew their weapons, a double-handed battleaxe and a one-handed war axe with a shield, and glared at the Thalmor.

"This is not over," she glowered, turning on her heel and storming off in the opposite direction, robes flapping behind her like bat wings.

"Carry on." The guard barked, resuming his patrol as both grey-armoured warriors sheathed their weapons and resumed their posts. Left in peace, the priest in robes took out a book, flicked through it, and began preaching where he stood as if nothing had happened.

"Talos the mighty! Talos the unerring! Talos the unassailable! To you we give praise!"

"So that was the nutter," Secente mused, turning to his right and heading in the same direction as the Thalmor woman who lost the argument. Sure enough, spreading out onto the rolling green of the park, framed by flower beds, a chapel with a stained glass window like an eight-spoked wheel looked down from above the red arched doors. Symbols for the Eight were engraved into the freshly-painted doors, and the chiming of holy bells rang faintly inside as he pushed the door open.

Thick and heady incense filled the building, tumbling from holes in a brass vessel like a vase hanging above the main shrines. All eight of them stood polished and well kept, with offerings of flowers, small fruits, and little gems twinkling in the light of the torch sconces. Two priests, one in pumpkin robes splattered in what looked like ink and one in what almost looked like steel armour wrapped in lilac sashes, stood as if waiting by a door. Occasionally the clanging and tinkling of holy bells would ring out from behind the door, seemingly at random, yet as the Breton drew closer, he could hear faint screaming moans underneath the bells, like someone was being disembowelled.

"Welcome, child. The Eight bid you sanctuary and offer you salvation from your trials." The ink-splattered priest bowed his head low, an amulet like a flower slipping from his mustard hood to swing on its leafy chain around his neck. "How can we-" he paused, as a particularly loud screech bypassed the disguise of bell ringing, "-be of assistance to you?"

"I'm looking-" Secente too was cut off by another loud scream, "-for the Vigilants of Stendarr."

"Vigilant Flavia and myself are Whiterun's representatives. What attacked you? Vampire brood? Lycanthrope pack? Coven of rogue witches or Daedra worshippers?"

"No, nothing." Secente paused, letting a long, loud scream ring out from behind the door. "I heard you accept recruits into your order. I wish to join you."

"To join us?" The Vigilant stifled a laugh. "Thankfully that's not up to me. You'll need to speak to-"

He paused again, as a loud, low scream rang out over gasps of pain, the choked sound of someone crying, and another, louder scream, followed by silence. Nothing, just baited anticipation, then the piercing screams of a newborn child. "Well done," a woman called out behind the door, "Mother Mara smiles upon you and your boy."

"Anyway," the Vigilant announced, "You'll need to speak to Keeper Carcette in the Hall of the Vigilant out in the Pale."

"Where's that?"

"Do you have a map? Nevermind. Go out of Whiterun and head east, then head north on the main road between the farm fields. Follow the road past Loreius' Farm until you reach a T junction, then head west along the road. Once you're at Fort Dunstad, head off the road northwest and from there, the Hall's in sight. Got that?"

Secente nodded, the ink-stained priest drawing out a scroll and quill to write down the instructions. "Good. I suppose I shall meet you there, presuming you pass whatever entrance test Keeper Carcette has in store for you."


	5. The Morrowind Harbourage

Sadarlis had been ditched by girls before, but not like this. The Altmer had gotten up in the night and ran for it, leaving behind just the glowing embers of the fire and her horse.

"Yeah, it's _her_ horse," he sniffed, dusting off the wet wool of what once were robes, "probably stole it. Seems the type."

He brushed a handful of snow off the ledge he'd sheltered against, dumping it onto the fire so it sizzled and died in a wisp of smoke and steam. "Whatever," he spat, "Her loss."

Undoing the reins, he scrabbled against the horse's side, biting his lip and holding in a stream of curses as the saddle smacked him in the chin, pulling himself up onto the creature's back. Brushing his loose fringe aside, he took hold of the reins and flicked, kicking it in the flanks with his bare feet and making it begin a steady trot. "Not so hard after all," he thought, kicking it again for it to pick up the pace, "now then...Windhelm."

Elder Selvrobar had told him barely anything about the Nordic city back in Azura's Watch. Just that it was welcoming to the Dunmer, the Temple of the Three would gladly have him as a new recruit aiding the refugees, and that he'll get used to the Eastmarch cold eventually. The last one he already didn't believe, but Eastmarch...common sense dictated it would be located in the east. Looking up through the trees, he tugged on the reins, sending the horse in the direction of the rising sun.

"Couldn't be too far," Sadarlis thought, occasionally giving the stolen steed a hard kick to the flanks to spur it on further through the silver birch forest. The snow here seemed to thin out to the south, in places being replaced by a brownish-orange tundra forest not too dissimilar to the southern end of the Mephalan Mountains. To the north however, it remained thick and heavy, as oppressive as humid air over the snow caked plains just visible through the skinny birches. The land couldn't decide whether to be low or high just past the forest, as jagged rocks like stubby teeth poked through the frost and shallow basins collected it.

A dart of light caught his eyes to the north, flickering amongst the basins and crags. Tugging the horse's reins, he forced it to stop as he squinted through the trees. "Metal? Metal what though?" His mind raced. "Armour? No, too small. A blade then, combatting what- Bear!"

He yanked the horse's reins, tugging it towards the bear. Silver flashes of some small weapon blinked against its skin in a vain attempt to make it back off, but it was having none of it. Just charging its prey and snarling, fat paws pounding the earth.

The Dunmer swore, clinging to the reins as he drew the cluster of fire within his hand. Taking on a bear was stupid at best, but for whoever it had picked as prey, it was the right thing to do. His very being felt like it was straining, forcing his core energy into the spell, making it crackle and burn and launch off his palm, careening through the air and smacking into the bear's fur.

It ignited, flames springing up on its fur as it roared and staggered, lumbering and attempting to run from the flames clinging to itself. "Get up, get away!" Sadarlis yelled, another fireball charging in his hand as he lined it up with the fleeing bear.

Nothing but a weak groan came from behind a rocky crag as the Dunmer took aim and sent the blast of flames soaring through the air to further scorch the fleeing bear. "Hold on," he yelled, sliding down off the horse, "I got this."

The flames in his palm vanished, fizzling into golden light spreading through both arms and into tiny, butter-yellow sunbeams dancing on his fingertips. "Hold still, this won't hurt a bit."

He knelt down and grabbed her shoulders, forcing swirls of butter yellow sparkles to envelop her with a sound like the twinkling of metal wind chimes. "There, I got- you again?"

"Could say the same." The Altmer groaned, peeling herself off the snow-topped crag she'd been smushed into. Little blood smears had been painted onto the snow surrounding her, the ground poking through where her and the bear had torn through its wintery shield, and the hemp rags she wore had a big, bloody slash going up the middle of it. "Ya didn't bloody take the horse, did ya?"

"Well you left it behind."

"It's lifted, of course I bloody ditched it. Don't wanna run in t'Imperial Ranger I yanked off the saddle while still on the bloody thing."

She swiped a dull grey dagger off the ground, slipping it in the rope tied around her waist and dashing across the frozen plains. "Do ya want t'be around for the bloody bear t'come back?"

Sadarlis let the buttery light fade from his palms, reaching for the horse's reins as it reared up. "Leave it!" Estore yelled, looking back as she clambered up a small, rocky ledge like a cat. Wild growls were coming from the small cluster of snowy pines the bear had bolted into, deep rumbles of pain and rage.

So he bolted too, leaping up for the same small ledge and muttering the most violent curse word he could think of as he pulled himself up and the jagged edge butted him right in the stomach. Swinging his skinny legs up with him, he staggered, pulled himself to his feet, and resumed his pursuit of the Altmer across the frozen lands. Though she towered above him on her long, skinny legs, he soon caught up as she dodged tiny lumps in the snow and leaped over a dent he stumbled into. His grazed hands and bloody knees stinging, he wiped dirt from his palms and resumed chase, almost smacking into Estore as he followed her footprints.

"Will ya bloody watch it!" She snapped. "Why ya bloody following me?"

The Dunmer paused, "Erm," he began, "you seem to know where to go."

She paused, spluttering and snorting with ugly laughter. "Nobody really knows where to go. I'm just following the Witch's Fingers sticking up over there."

"Witch's Fingers?" Sadarlis peered over at where she was pointing, her chipped nail hovering over an ugly square block of a city just fading out in the distance. Some sort of growth was climbing out of the city, bulging and warping like the stems of plants or spirals of magic drifting out of a spell tome as it was read. "That's it!" He exclaimed. "That's Windhelm!"

The Dunmer skidded down the rocky ledge, tripping and slamming jaw-first into a rock at the bottom amongst the snowdrifts, arm catching under him and elbowing himself in the eye as he yelled out the most violent curse word he knew so it echoed off the frozen vista. Pulling himself up to his knees, he spat on the snow, wiping blood off his cheek as a pair of golden legs landed in front of him.

"Mind if I come with ya t'city?"

Sadarlis pulled himself to his feet. "What for?"

"City's got a port and I don't want t'miss anything like that again before I get outta this frozen pit." She flipped her hair aside, smirking. "Didn't ya mother ever wash ya mouth out with sload soap?"

"She never had the need to," he chuckled, wading out of the rocky snowdrifts. "You know you'll be coming to Windhelm's Temple of the Reclamations if you intend to follow me all the way."

"Lucky I don't. Just t'city then I'm out."

"Out to where?"

"Anywhere but here." The Altmer flicked snow off her shoulders. "Somewhere that's not a frozen wasteland ideally."

"So back to Alinor?"

"I ain't from Alinor. I'm Elsweyri. We're different."

"In what way?"

Estore went quiet, biting her lip as she strode ahead through the deep snow. "Well, in what way?" Sadarlis called again behind her.

"Too many ways for me t'list, kid. When ya meet someone from Alinor though, ya can tell the difference. Come on, I'm looking t'get outta here sometime _this_ week."

She strode ahead, carving a deep trench through the knee-deep snow up the hill all the way to the Windhelm bridge. Bleak stone slabs stretched down onto the path, worn down by millions of footsteps over the years. Across the water, lit by burning braziers, the reddened iron gates stood tall and proud, flanked by guards in metal masks with ocean blue sashes across their chests. To their right, the sour reek of horses and dry hay drifted up from the stables, and the salty, stinging smell of the ocean came in with every bitter wind off the Sea of Ghosts.

"This is it..." Sadarlis whispered to nobody in particular, watching as the root tendrils and mushroom caps of home snaked up to poke their heads over the wall. This was it, this was the great refuge of the Dunmer.

"You finally got here, f'lah." A patrolling guard in an ocean-blue sash strode past him, ash grey wrists poking out of the gap between long sleeves under armour and woollen gloves tugged onto chapped and worn hands. "Go right in. Archcanon Sadeuraver Raleth and Windhelm's Great House gladly helps all refugees from Morrowind."

He nodded, heading into the city as both guards cranked a lever and the doors scraped open. "Welcome to Windhelm, travellers. Council seat of House...what did you call it again?" The guard with a rough bark to his voice asked the other one flanking the gate.

"Malroua-Solsha, sera. House Malroua-Solsha."

So that was the new Great House from Skyrim. They were the ones overseeing the bustling market full of weapons and jewels and exotic scents. Yelps and grizzles of strange yet familiar creatures came from stacked cages alongside chickens, cows, and goats in pens marked 'for sale' in Tamrielic and Dunmeris, and the smell of cooking drifting from a collection of stalls seemed to fill the air with red. Red meats rubbed with red spices and roasted over red flames to be diced and served in red tomato soups with red chilli flakes. Queues of huddled masses stretched from within the stone-and-mushroom buildings up to the stalls, as Dunmer of every age in ragged clothes and thick cloaks came for their daily tithe. Even the odd Nordic beggar in filtered into the lines, bones visible through skin and rags hanging off them as they waited for their bread bowls of spicy meat soup.

"Estore, look-" He turned to where the Altmer stood before, but she'd vanished into the crowds, the slapping of her bare feet drowned out by the clanging of the blacksmith's hammer and the calls of stallholders. "Oh...right."

He ducked through the queues, emerging in the quarter of the city flooded by mushroom roots amongst the sturdy, square buildings. Here, Dunmer guards in thick bonemold armour patrolled, thick scarves and woollen wraps wound around the pale yellow armour. Some younger mer were playing a game of sorts, mounds of scarves and sweaters piled up into goals on the stone kerbs as they tore around the street with a battered looking leather ball at their feet. Hunched in a sheltered corner, a woman with her hair covered in a thick shawl sat cross-legged, an infant still in their t'lonya being supported one-armed as they hung off her bare breast. Her other arm remained fully occupied as she tried holding the wriggling toddler sat amongst her flowing skirts, feeding him from her own soup ration at the same time. Standing in front of some inn, one holding onto the swinging sign, three Dunmer all around the age of fifteen had formed a kind of human tower, with the biggest two holding up what looked like one's sister, and a fourth sat on her shoulders rapping on a window with a rose between his lips until a Dunmer girl of about his age opened up the casement window.

"Dreveli...I know your father doesn't approve...but maybe - Hold still, Tevyni! - maybe we could see about sneaking you out. I know a good spot...here...this is for you...we'll be here tonight at eleven. Dreveli...I love yo- NO! NO NO NOOOO!"

Sadarlis turned away and winced as the teenager tower behind him toppled over with a crash and loud swearing, the young lady Dreveli stifling a chuckle behind her hand. "Oi!" Someone yelled. "You kids get outta here! I know your father, Enduval, you come anywhere near Dreveli again and he will hear about this!"

They scattered as the innkeeper stormed back inside, the door slamming behind him as Sadarlis headed blindly towards the swollen mushroom tower adorned with prayer flags fluttering in the wind. This was it. This was where he was needed. The maze of root paths connecting the fenced-off manors and goliath of a Council Chamber building didn't matter. What mattered was he was home. His new home.

His rags fluttered as he climbed up the root steps, goosebumps raised and hair stood on end. No more winter chill, no more nights like the one he spend sleeping wild. His hands red raw from the cold, he forced the temple doors open, and staggered inside.

Heady incense filled the air as he stumbled inside, sweet and musky like exotic blooms such as timsa come-by and noble sedge. Thick clouds of the purple smoke billowed through gaps in silver censers, sweetening the air and veiling the three stone statues looming out of the darkness in smoke. Carved in white marble, their stony faces glared down in serenity, rage, and wisdom at the four trioliths arranged in a square in the middle, carved with an orcish warrior wielding a giant warhammer, a four-armed giant with a battleaxe, a finely-dressed nobleman with a cane, and a horned lion roaring the call of their pride. Filth splattered the four trioliths, ash from fires, ick from gutters, and all manner of foulness showing what the Dunmer people thought of those four deities.

"Child, what troubles you?" A young woman, her deep black curls spilling out from under a loose scarf wound over her hair, turned from a pit of ashes and skulls to face him. "A new arrival? You seem in need of healing."

Sadarlis shook his head. "Elder Selvrobar sent me. Sadarlis Indilu, from Azura's Watch. I'm here to help out."

"Sadarlis? Oh, oh the Archcanon was wondering where you had gotten to. Come, what happened? You look like you were thrown off Red Mountain and bounced all the way down to the ruins of Ald'Ruhn."

He blushed, looking down at his bare arms. The purplish bruises were mellowing down to a more yellowish-green, and he had a feeling the throbbing on his face would turn into a black eye before the end of the day. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Well either way at least you're here now. Baths and rooms are in the undercroft, go scrape the dirt off and get a set of robes. You've come at just the right time, we can use all the help we can get."


	6. Windhelm

Estore had opened her legs for many a free night's stay before, and it was never the same each time. Some had been pleasant, like the Ohmes Khajiit's apartment on the Cyrodiil border where the lady living upstairs practiced the flute as the sun came up. Some had been...not so pleasant, like rent day in Corinthe when she heard the guy next door beating his wife. Yet silent rooms in silent houses were always the strangest.

The Altmer turned over, looking at the Dunmer laying tangled in her own long, red hair as she slept. What did she beg her to call her between her heavy gasps? Oh, Mashti, that was it! Mashti Sadras. Been a stroke of luck catching her in Candlehearth Hall after she ditched that kid for a heavy drink before leaving. She'd been hiding under a black hooded cloak, eyes darting everywhere, jumping at anyone getting too close. How the young one flinched when she yelled "Hey lady, stop!" and relaxed when the Altmer held out a septim and claimed she dropped it was by far the biggest clue.

Sitting up, Estore sighed as she peeled the damp sheets off her. Silk ones - only the best for a House Councillor's daughter - that clung to every inch and refused to budge no matter how much she tugged on them. Staying in the lap of luxury was good for a night, but not so much to live in. The Altmer would never have caught Mashti hiding in the tavern if it was so good back home, and she wouldn't have so many guesses for her reason for going undercover. Accidentally insulted another House's Councillor and was too scared to go home? Fancied slumming it for a night to do it as the poor do? Secretly liked girls and didn't know how to explain to mummy and daddy's bank accounts that she didn't want to marry the filthy rich Dunmer that the elders of House Sadras had picked as her future husband?

Her fingers traced through the Dunmer's soft hair, brushing it from her cheek. How she blushed when she said that; a dead giveaway that it was true. All it took after that correct guess was a few kind, if drunken, words, maybe a hand going up the thigh to caress her, and the young Mashti Sadras was like putty in her hands. Persuading her to go back to her family's home in the House Sadras quarters of the Grand Council chambers was too easy. Just had to leave a soft, tender kiss on the fringe of her lips with a compliment in tow, and Mashti Sadras would do anything Estore said. Well, as long as they were both quiet enough for her parents not to hear.

Now the sun was coming up outside, peeping around the curtain in a haze of pastel light and catching the sheen of the petticoats and silk underwear left abandoned on the floor. The young Dunmer had quivered when Estore had peeled them off her and cast them aside, and would probably have collapsed had she not laid down first. "Ya got a talent in the sheets," she whispered, slipping out of bed and landing silent as a cat on the organic, woody floor, "keep working on it."

She picked up the scuzziest looking felt petticoat she'd stripped off Mashti, dusted it down, and slipped it on. Less likely to miss an old, fraying one with a hole in the skirt than a brand new one that was still shiny. The old sack cloth rags she'd been stuck in before could be ditched later, and people were a lot more likely to talk to her if she didn't pass for a beggar. Leaning over the sleeping Dunmer, Estore kissed her forehead through her soft, red hair, stealing a glance at the deep red love bite on her breast as she pulled the silk layers up over her face. Not worth the risk if the sun shone on her face and woke her up. Always awkward when she couldn't slip out and make a clean getaway. Her eyes safely covered, Estore pulled back the curtain and opened up the window, sliding up onto the ledge. "Ya gonna make some girl happy one day, Mashti," she whispered, sliding both her legs out the window, "just not me."

She let herself drop, landing on one of the root tendrils growing out of the giant mushroom pod as her knees crunched up into her chest. Straightening up, she wandered down the root until it connected to a path, clambering down the outside of the Council Chambers until cold stone and hard earth nipped at her bare feet. "Shoulda lifted a pair too," Estore muttered, wincing at every step on the icy stone, "bet she had a few to spare."

She scaled back over the fence surrounding the council manors and Morrowind council chambers, landing on her feet on the other side in the grey light of dawn, padding through to the big inn rearing up from the now-silent market like a lion crouching in the grass. Candlehearth Hall, not a bad place to get something strong and pick up someone looking for a one-night fling that becomes a free night off the streets. Might even keep the cold away for long enough until she was in warmer waters. The Telvanni Isles were certainly tempting after picking ice chunks off the soles of her feet before joining Mashti between the sheets.

"Ya still serving?" Estore slid into the tavern, slumping on a stool as the bartender looked up.

"Still serving. What you after?"

"What's the strongest thing ya got? Stick it on my tab."

"When do you plan to pay it?"

"When I head out the bar today," the Altmer lied, "easier as a lump sum."

The bartender slid an orangey-brown bottle across the wooden counter, letting it smack into her outstretched palm. "You picked a bad city to settle in. Likely to get mistaken for one of the Thalmor."

"Pfft," she snorted, "don't worry, I got no intention of lettin' anyone mistake me for one o' them."

She tugged the cork out with her teeth, spitting it in her hand and letting the mead burn her mouth. "If this place ain't Thalmor-friendly, might be the best city t'settle in."

"Believe me, the guards got a name for any Thalmor striding into Windhelm with their nose in the air. Suicidal. They skip over throwing them out first."

"Good. Bloody deserved."

She turned on her bar stool, leaning against the wall and letting the cold mead burn her throat again. "There a bard upstairs?"

"Should be. Unless she's taking a break."

"What's she play?"

"She's Dunmer so lots of battle and death and stuff about Nerevar-whoever. You know, real dark pieces and the like."

"Huh," she snorted, taking another sip of mead, "might see what she can do."

She slid off the bar stool, her skirts catching it and making it topple against the wall with a loud thunk. The mead bottle still in hand, she thunked her way upstairs, bare feet like ice blocks on the wood floors. Upstairs, just the bard lounged against a wall, fiddling with the strings on a lute. A metal tankard sat on the table at her side between a finely carved flute and a taut skin drum, tendrils of steam drifting up to weave with her hands as she tightened up a string. Distracted. Perfect. Far too easy to lean against the doorframe, just looking around...just checking out the mercenary wiping his bleary morning eyes in the corner. Just a yawn, just rubbing her eyes, just slipping her weight onto the actual door and...oops!

She slipped out as the door fell open from her weight, catching her fall and rolling onto the snow outside, leaving the pink skirt of her stolen dress fanned out like a lily bud as it opened. The old 'I tripped' trick. Never failed down south, didn't look like it would fail up north either. Dusting herself off, she pulled herself up, wading barefoot through the snow as Windhelm turned from grey markets to grey houses.

"Son of a-" She glanced back at the trench she'd carved through the snow, the houses growing up to surround it from little stone dwellings to full on manors carved with birds and wolves and moths. Not as colourful as parakeets or butterflies, but eh, what do you expect with Nords? They make things strong and dull, and make their cities like mazes waiting to get lost in.

She tugged her hands inside her sleeves as a cold blast whipped through the streets, raising goosebumps on the back of her neck. Docks...should be follow the stink of freshly caught fish and saltwater, but the entire city stank of Senchal's ports, just with a sharp coldness that impaled her all over like needles. Following her nose would not be an option.

"Swallow ya pride!" Estore hissed to herself, glancing over at a young Nord man crouched by a corner, peeping around, listening in. "Sir?"

He flailed and jumped, yelping and drawing a dagger in his belt as he whirled around. "Don't sneak up on me that way!"

Like he'd prefer any of the other ways. "Sorry, but do ya know the way t'docks?"

He sighed, sheathing the dagger. "Go up this street to the very end, turn to your right, keep going straight through the Gray Quarter until you're forced to turn right. The big dock gates can't be missed."

Up, right, straight, forced right. "Got it, thank'ya."

"Oh, and watch out for the little Aretino kid."

Kid? "What 'bout'em?"

"You don't wanna go near him. Let's put it this way."

He's a kid, can't do much. "I'll bear that in mind. Thank'ya for ya time."

She headed around the corner, looking ahead. Two people, a Dunmer woman and a young Nord boy, were talking further up the path by some old house. Was that the kid, Aretino or whatever? Doesn't look like a bad kid.

"Then it's true, what everyone is saying? That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?"

Estore froze, foot hovering above the snow mid-step. So that kid wasn't the Aretino kid, but the actual Aretino kid was...well, the Dark Brotherhood...

"Oh Grimvar...always with the nonsense. No, no, of course not. Those are just tales..."

"Fine. Then I'll invite him out to play. He lives right there. I'm going to knock on his door..."

"No, child! Wait!" She grabbed his hand, inches from knocking on the wood. "That boy, that house - they're cursed!"

"Ha! Then I'm right." The kid turned around, a smug smile on his face as he pulled his hand from the Dunmer's. "I knew it. He's trying to have somebody killed."

"All right," she sighed, defeated, "I won't deny it, child. What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can only lead to ruin. Now, enough. We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need."

She took the kid's hand and began leading him away, down past Estore and through the network of streets and alleys. So this Aventus Aretino kid really was summoning the Dark Brotherhood, if what that Dunmer woman said was true. The other kid, Grimvar, had threatened to knock and that woman had grabbed his hand as if he were about to touch metal still white hot from the forge, so there must at least be something dangerous about the little two-floor building. Something dangerous...like the Dark Brotherhood.

"Why?" The question hung off her lips as she walked up to the door, then swore as she stood on a lockpick half-buried in the snow. "Kid can't be that twisted."

She mused as she dug the hooked bit of metal out of the snow, clutching it in her hand as she looked over the tight keyhole. People don't just wake up one morning and decide they're gonna do some cult ritual thingy to summon an assassin and have someone killed. Especially not a kid. No, there must be a reason behind it. Dark Brotherhood targets are never purely innocent. There's always a reason.

The Altmer stole a look over her shoulder, checking for empty streets before turning back and sliding the pick in. Her ear to the wood, she listened for the scraping of metal and creaking of springs as she flirted with the pins and tumblers within. Each tiny squeak brought the lock closer to its sweet spot, before a spring stretched, metal clicked, and the lock rotated to draw back the bar and let her tumble in to get a faceful of snow, ice, and dirt.

"-in blood and fear."

She spat out a chunk of ice as she picked herself up, slipping her lone lockpick down her front and wiping dirt off her hands. Filthy footprints, way too small to be an adult's, tracked mud up a short flight of wide stairs leading to the only floor in the house, ending in a little pair of snow boots and a black sheet wrapping up something oozing black and stinking. That sickly sweet but ripe and gassy smell, like rotten meat - no, rotten pork! Like a pig that got heatstroke and died out in the pens, and the farmers just left it there to go rancid and attract flies.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear."

Well the Dunmer woman was right. Some kid was chanting, his hunched-over shadow cast by candlelight, a trail of blood smeared on the wooden floor leading to where the flames flickered. Here the rotten pork smell was even stronger, and it took all of Estore's control not to retch at the smell.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear."

Covering her nose with her sleeve, Estore crept closer, peering around the corner where the flames flickered. The kid knelt hunched over on his elbows and knees, surrounded by lit candles and bowed over what looked like bones, but...dripping. Liquid, rancid flesh oozed off the brown bones, a fresh-looking chunk of it blackening at the edges slapped over the spine and just under the ribs. Some crushed flower remains had been discarded by the skull, and the mangled remains of a heart oozed blood over the wooden planks as the child drew back a dagger and plunged it again and again into the bloody organ.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear."

There must be a reason. No kid just does this for the fun of it. Creeping over, she held her sleeve tight over her nose, and touched his shoulder.

He jumped, almost falling backwards into a candle, landing on his hands and looking up, breaking into a grin. "Finally," he yelled, "my prayers have been answered."

Estore backed up, uncovering her nose. "Are you all right?"

"It worked! I knew you'd come, I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over. With the body and the...the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!"

"Okay..." Estore's words tripped in her mouth, refusing to leave her head.

"You don't have to say anything. There's no need. You're here, so I know you'll accept my contract."

Was it too late to run. To go get a guard? They weren't exactly...well at least they'd deal with this. "My mother, she...she died. I...I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's terrible. To all of us. So I ran away, and came home. And performed the Black Sacrament. Now you're here! And you can kill Grelod the Kind!"

He gestured as he spoke, miming stabbing, letting his sleeves flap wildly up to his elbows. Strange, reddish marks flashed on his wrists, and he seemed to twitch as she reached out for his hand. "Let me see." She took his hand, holding it out, lining up her wrist with his. Angry, red marks gripped across both of their arms, bruising at the hand and scraping over the wrists. Letting go, he twitched as she stood up, towering over him and holding the bruises.

"Where's Riften?" She asked, and he shrugged. "Nevermind...I'll find it."

He seemed to stare up, eyes wide. "Please don't kill Constance Michel, she really is nice!"

Estore shook her head, patting her hip, checking the iron dagger she'd stolen earlier. "Don't worry, I got this."

She headed out, jumping as the heavy old door slammed shut behind her, stifling a yelp behind a bitten lip. "Can't get away from it." She muttered, head down, tracking her original footsteps back through the snow and ice. "Fact o'life."

She kept her head down past the houses, people starting to emerge and begin their days around her. Some woman had draped an old rug over a washing line between two houses and was beating it with a broom, clouds of dust and chips of dried mud falling into the snow at every loud 'thwack'. Five Nord kids surrounded a little Dunmer boy of about nine summers old, one standing on his back and grinding him into the snow while the other four pelted him with chunks of ice and stones. One even had what looked like his father's sword, wielding the one-handed blade like a greatsword and threatening to behead the young mer every time he tried struggling free. Another kid crouched just around the corner of a house, hiding behind a stack of fat logs waiting to be burned, hands over her ears as a loud crack and a scream rang out from inside. As Estore passed by, a young Nord woman stumbled out of the house, one hand held over her eye and blood dripping from her nose until it stained the rust orange apron over her cream dress, reaching a hand out for her little girl to grab onto behind the stack.

"Whoever's up there," Estore muttered, flinching as someone screamed deep within the network of alleys, "I see why ya don't take this pit. I would'na want it either."


End file.
